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when edwin met beatrice

7/2/2020

The history of the Stodola family in the United States began with his grandparents, who were part of a wave of German immigration in the mid 19th century in response to war and turmoil in Europe. A subset, like Henry ('Hy,” which likely started off as Chaim) and Barbara Stodola, were Ashkenazy Jews who in addition to fleeing civil unrest were seeking to escape antisemitic persecution. Hy arrived in Boston from Prussia on July 21, 1849, and then made his way to New York City. Barbara arrived a few years later; they must have met and married in New York. Their first child, Malia, was born in 1855, their second, my great grandfather Joseph, was born in 1858, followed by Lena in 1860 and Samuel in 1862. In the 1870 census, Hy's occupation was listed as "baker." Barbara died in 1908, by then a widow.

On May 29, 1881, Joseph, a dry goods merchant, married Bertha Eilau. Joseph and Bertha had three children, Gilbert Isaiah (born in 1883), my grandfather Edwin Sidney (born in 1885), and Ruth, the baby (born in 1892). Gilbert listed himself as an editorial assistant on his World War I draft card but also stood as proof of a scientific bent in the family, having published an article in the January 1923 edition of the Scientific American about an ingenious device he’d invented for installation in taxicabs to allow the fleet owner to determine the time and distance covered in each trip. So my father’s engineering abilities and love of gadgets, though they probably surprised his artistic parents, apparently didn’t come from out of nowhere.

My grandfather must have displayed a gift for music early in life and was evidently encouraged to pursue it. By the time he was in his late teens or early twenties, he had achieved critical acclaim as a concert artist, including the obligatory Carnegie Hall recital, and was also working as a piano teacher. His advanced training included six years under the tutelage of Henry Holden Huss - largely forgotten now, but in his day a well-known American pianist and composer, and performances of his pieces can still be readily heard on youtube. They evince a conservative taste in music and are quite free of avant grade rhythms and dissonances. (It is worth remembering that Brahms lived until 1897, when my grandfather was age 12 and Henry was age 35, so the romantic tradition was hardly ancient history during that era.) The Henry Holden Huss collection is housed in the Music Division of the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

I’m not sure when these six years of study with Huss began and ended. My family “archives” includes a tattered photo of Henry Holden Huss and his wife, the American soprano Hildegard Hoffmann (clearly a marriage made in HHHeaven!) on the reverse “To my dear pupil Edwin Stodola” and dated June ’04. Or at least I think it says ’04. If so, it was likely a token or souvenir of Henry and Hildegard’s marriage, which took place in that same month and year, and the six years my grandfather studied with him must have included if not started with 1904.

At the end of his training with Huss - shall we guess around 1910? - my grandfather left his native New York to join the faculty of a conservatory in St. Joseph, Missouri. It was sometime during this period that he met my grandmother, a native of Missouri. Did they become acquainted after he arrived there, or did he meet her elsewhere and move there to be near her? I cannot say.

(Florence) Beatrice King, born in 1889 in Savannah, Missouri, was the doted-upon only child of Arthur and Vergetta Sayers King. Like Edwin, she found her calling early in life and participated in theatrical performances as a child. Her training was in a profession that almost doesn't exist today, as an elocutionist or diseuse; perhaps the closest modern equivalent would be a performance artist. After finishing her secondary education she attended the Chicago Conservatory of Music and Dramatic Art, followed by postgraduate work at the Columbia College of Expression and the American School of Expression and Oratory. She then returned to Missouri and coached students in drama and public speaking. She also painted and wrote poetry and plays. She was sociable and effervescent and had a wide circle of friends. She must have dazzled the quiet Edwin.

Beatrice, age 9, costumed for a theatrical performance.

Beatrice on her wedding day, January 11, 1913.

Edwin and Beatrice married in St. Joseph on January 11, 1913. It was clearly a love match, but one that came at great personal cost to my grandfather. When he proposed to my grandmother, her parents, after duly inquiring about his moral character - probably of Henry Holden Huss! - welcomed him into their family. His parents, however, were unable to accept this connection, and sadly all contact ceased.

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One of my most treasured souvenirs is a charming brochure assembled by Beatrice and Edwin, apparently to help in recruiting students. This brochure, with a “Beatrice” column and an “Edwin” column, is actually the source of much of what I know about both my grandparents’ training. Since the brochure lists my grandmother’s name as Beatrice King Stodola, it must have been published shortly after their wedding. (In fact it might even have replaced an earlier version that did not include my grandmother’s married name.)

Not long after, their Missouri saga came to an end, and by the time my father was born in October of 1914, they were living in Brooklyn. Now that my grandfather was back in New York, I wish I could report a reconciliation with his parents, but alas, that did not happen, then or ever. Edwin’s brother Gilbert, so far as I can tell, never married, and his sister Ruth, marrying late in life, never had children. So my father and (later) his two younger brothers were Joseph and Bertha's only grandchildren. My grandmother made a couple of valiant attempts to visit her in-laws, hoping the sight of their adorable little grandson would melt their hearts, but she was not invited in. Only now, through the miracle of ancestry.com, am I slowly piecing together my grandfather’s story and even tracking down a few cousins on the Stodola side.

* * * * *

Upon returning to New York City along with his bride, my grandfather resumed his association with Henry Holden Huss and Hildegard Hoffman Huss in the capacity of "pupil-assistant" of both, which apparently included serving as an accompanist for their other students.

This ushered in what might be called the Golden Age of my grandfather’s career, as a google search turns up several reviews of concerts and recitals in which he played pieces I could only dream of tackling. The oboist and musicologist Lisa Kozenko, in a doctoral dissertation focused on this era, describes “a musical reception in honor of the American baritone David Bispham (1857-1921) along with the Husses. The guests included the Vincent Astors, Carolyn Beebe, Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge, the Hermann Irions, Hugo Kortschak, Mrs. Ethelbert Nevin, and others. In its April 7, 1917 issue, Musical America reported that Huss was asked to improvise (“A thing which he does fascinatingly”). His student Edwin Stodola suggested “D B” as theme honoring Bispham: “It was on that that Mr. Huss built his splendid improvisation, which won warm favor from all present.”

So we have now arrived at the May 6, 1918 concert in Rumford Hall and my grandparents’ subsequent move to Boston, as described in my most recent blog post. Although I concluded in that essay that they had not moved to escape the pandemic, they almost certainly also did not move to advance Edwin’s career as a concert artist; if anything, probably the opposite. Although Boston was once the hub of the national chamber music scene, the center of gravity had by now shifted to New York City. Had he been bent on pursuing a concertizing career, my grandfather should have stayed put and remained under the wing of the Husses.

“Being a musician is not an easy profession in any era,” wrote Kozenko in her dissertation. "[By 1920], the competition from radio, recordings, jukeboxes and movies confronted anyone attempting to pursue a career in music.” The May 6 concert appears to have been almost a swan song. With a growing family and a pandemic emptying concert halls, he had likely decided it was time to shelve the dream of supporting his family as a musician and move on to a different life plan.

This is not to say that he abandoned music altogether. Performances in Boston included a musical accompaniment to a lecture on “The Relationship of Poetry and Music” by my grandmother at the Boston Public Library in April, 1922; piano music in a radio broadcast in October, 1922, "Rhymes and Music for Little Folks," also featuring readings by my grandmother. Similar notices appeared occasionally in the Kingsport Times during their few years in Tennessee, where he ran a print shop. His 1957 obituary states that in addition to teaching and concertizing, he served as director of music for the [New York] Veterans Administration, where he assisted in the training of veterans studying music at Columbia University, Juilliard, City College, and New York University.

But there is nothing to suggest that he ever gave up his day jobs, in which he used his keyboard skills as a “typewriter” and a printer. Music had become an avocation.

Despite the disappointments that beset them, theirs was a happy union. My grandfather was a gentle man and a gentleman, quiet and reserved, but he never passed my grandmother's chair without touching her shoulder. He even enjoyed "helping" her with her garden, which mostly consisted of planting seeds and pulling weeds under her direction.

By the time I knew him, his hands were rusty with arthritis and disuse, and he had grown hard of hearing. He never willingly played the piano in my presence, and when he was cajoled by my grandmother into accompanying family musicales it was clear to me even as a child that his skills had sadly atrophied. Yet so far as I know, he was content with his lot.

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PANDEMIC!

5/10/2020

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The annual flu season of 1918 started in the Spring. As flu seasons go, it was relatively mild; those who became ill typically suffered through a several days of chills and fever, then recovered. The number of reported deaths was low. A year earlier, on April 6, 1917, the United States had entered the Great War, and news of major offensives in Europe, not the flu, dominated the headlines. As summer approached, the flu subsided as usual.

Then, on August 11, the Norwegian vessel Bergensfjord docked at a Brooklyn NY pier. Twenty-one of those aboard - 10 passengers and 11 crew members - were ill. A team of doctors and city officials, having been warned in advance, were on hand to meet the ship and quickly sent those where were ill to nearby hospitals. The first few cases of what turned out to be one of the deadliest pandemics in human history had landed in New York City.

Despite efforts at containment - the pier was immediately placed under strict quarantine - the disease started to spread, insidiously at first, but soon sweeping through the city’s densely-populated neighborhoods like wildfire. Unlike its earlier incarnation, this second wave turned out to be a merciless beast. The first death in New York City was recorded about a month after the Bergensfjord arrived, by the first of October the daily death toll had reached around 50, and by the middle of the month over 400 people were dying each day. October of 1918 was the deadliest month of the entire epidemic. Eventually over 20,000 lost their lives.

And a singularly unpleasant death it was. The historian Mike Wallace described “patients gasping for breath as their lungs filled with bloody frothy fluid.” Within days or even hours, they basically drowned in their own bloody fluids. Victims could awake feeling fine and be dead by midnight.

Consistent with the usual demographic pattern, children under five and adults over seventy were at elevated risk. Unlike most influenza epidemics, however, healthy young adults between the ages of 20 and 40 were also highly susceptible to infection and suffered by far the highest mortality rates, with pregnant women being at the highest risk of dying if infected. Amazingly, except for individuals over 70, older adults, the group upon which the flu usually preys most heavily, were largely spared, producing an unusual W-shaped death curve - likely because some similar but less lethal bug had struck during their childhood and conferred lingering immunity.

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Sometime between May 6, when my grandfather gave a concert in Rumford Hall on Worth Street in lower Manhattan, and September 12, when he was issued a draft card in Massachusetts (in response to an August 1918 amendment to the Selective Service Act raising the upper age limit for eligibility), my father and his parents moved from their densely populated Brooklyn neighborhood the relatively quiet town of Randolph, a suburb of Boston.

During the dark moments we are all living through today, it occurred to me to wonder whether the Great Influenza played any part in their decision to leave Brooklyn. Historically, even when contagion was less well understood, people realized that crowded conditions might contribute to the spread of disease and city-dwellers who could afford to do so often fled to less crowded areas when a pandemic struck.

Public health officials anticipated from the start that New York would be severely affected by the Great Influenza. It was a large port city whose population had mushroomed due to recent waves of immigration. Many of its doctors were overseas fighting World War I, which at the time appeared to have no end in sight though in fact it ended rather abruptly with the Armistice on November 11 of 1918. The installation of subways and elevated trains created a brand new phenomenon, “rush hour.” New York was a center for international travel and shipping and the departure point for more than a million troops headed for battlefields in France. In short, New York was a veritable breeding ground for the flu, and Brooklyn was at its center.

If ever a family had targets painted on their backs, it was the Stodolas. Edwin was about to turn 33 and Beatrice was 28 (the modal or peak age for mortality in the 1918 pandemic), her pregnancy putting her and her unborn child in even graver danger. My father, aged three, was also in a high-risk category.

The likelihood of my grandparents having known what was coming in time to stay ahead of the fast-moving tsunami, however, is low. Front-page news focused on the Great War, while reports on the Great Influenza were buried or absent. And not just by chance; countries engaged in fighting actively suppressed news of the outbreak to avoid undermining morale. (Because Spain was not at war, the Spanish press wrote freely about it - hence the misnomer "Spanish flu.") When the approaching infection could no longer be ignored, local officials, abetted by the press, typically reassured the public either that it wasn't really the Spanish flu or that the worst was over. Not until people saw their friends, neighbors, and family members dying before their eyes, dying horribly, did they recognize the disconnect between what they were being told and reality.

If against all odds Edwin and Beatrice were somehow cognizant enough of their plight to entertain the hope that moving to a less densely populated suburban area would improve their chances of surviving the pandemic, they were quite simply mistaken. The Boston area per se was hardly a haven from the flu. In fact it struck the port of Boston even before it arrived in New York; indeed, in the end, the death rate from influenza in Boston was even higher than in New York. Nor did the suburbs provide any refuge. Except for a few communities that were either smart enough or fortunate enough to achieve true isolation from the outside world, there was nowhere to hide from the Great Influenza. In fact, there is no evidence for either Boston or New York that the suburbs fared better than more densely populated urban areas.

No place to hide: A field hospital in Brookline, one of several suburban Boston towns in which my grandparents lived during their stay in Masachusetts.

Rather, my grandparents' move was probably motivated by a desire for a more suburban lifestyle for their growing family, a preemptive job offer for Edwin, or both. They had already endured a serious health scare in the summer of 2016, a polio epidemic that infected thousands and killed more than two thousand in New York City, mostly in Brooklyn. With my father approaching his fourth birthday and their second son, Quentin, due in mid-October, their current quarters may well have been feeling cramped. It was time to look around - perhaps for a place where their children could have a yard to play in, where the family might even adopt a dog!

Beatrice with King and baby Quentin.

King and his enormous dog Sandy.

In this context, my grandfather either found or was recruited for a job as a Private Secretary at the recently-opened Boston branch of the National Industrial Conference Board. The NICB had been founded in 1916 in New York to help mollify labor unrest following the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in 1911. The organization turned out to be as liberal as pro-management organizations ever get. During the time my grandfather worked there, the NICB conducted and published groundbreaking research on worker’s compensation and the 8-hour workday and developed the Cost of Living Index. (Much later, Alan Greenspan began his career at the NICB.) Today it might be called a think-tank, and it may have been my grandfather’s introduction to the publishing business. This new job would explain their choice of New England, a place to which to the best of my knowledge neither of my grandparents had any previous connection.

How did my grandparents and their children manage to survive the Great Influenza? Did they catch a milder version during the initial Spring wave, when they were in Brooklyn, that protected them from the deadlier version that came roaring back in the Fall? Did one or more of them contract the flu that raged around them shortly after they arrived in Massachusetts - but recover? Was it pure luck?

Despite my grandmother's proclivity for journaling and letter-writing, I have yet to find a word in the family archives that might shed some light on this issue. Many have likewise remarked on how little mention the Great Influenza has received, in either the history books or in literature, either contemporaneously or later. Only recently, in the wake of several other pandemics or would-be pandemics, and now in the light of the coronovirus crisis, has this lost pandemic begun to receive the scientific and historic attention it deserves.

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My grandparents remained in Massachusetts until 1925, by which time their third son Sidney (born in 1920) and my grandmother’s parents Arthur and Vergetta King had also joined the household. They then moved to Kingsport, Tennessee, where my grandfather had landed a job with a printing press. Life in Kingsport, however, lacked the liberal spirit they found congenial and the cultural amenities they enjoyed. Just a few years later they returned to Brooklyn so their three sons could take advantage of New York City’s excellent educational system.

Their seven year sojourn in Massachusetts was clearly a happy time for my father, and apparently for the whole family. Presumably it was during this period that my grandparents discovered and fell in love with Cape Cod. They eventually bought and refurbished a small cottage in Wellfleet that my grandmother christened Shining Sands, where my sisters and I spent many idyllic summer vacations during our childhood.

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QUEST OF THE MAGI

12/23/2019

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Here is my holiday gift to my readers: One of my favorite photographs, of one of my happiest childhood memories - the annual reenactment of "We Three Kings" by my sisters and me, accompanied on the piano by our grandfather.

Cindy, Leslie, and Sherry Stodola, with our grandfather Edwin Stodola at the keyboard. I must have been around 9, and my sisters 7 and 4, which would make the year ~1952.

In the back of a large closet in her Oakland, NJ home, my grandmother kept a trunk crammed with the makings of just about any costume a child could desire - exotic scarves and shawls, colorful lengths of tulle and velvet, and opulent fabrics threaded with silver and gold. I never saw my grandmother sew, so I suppose these treasures were gleaned from the wardrobes of her various thespian activities. Her grandchildren were always welcome to delve into its depths, strewing its contents around the room as we searched for just the right pompom or scrap of lace to complete the look we were striving for.

At no time was our fervor for such revelry greater than at Christmastime.

Because their three-ness matched our three-ness, my two sisters and I felt a particular affinity for the Three Wise Men. When Amahl and the Night Visitors debuted on Christmas Eve of 1951, we quickly adapted our own hilarious (to us) and rather raucous version, prancing around the house and belting out "Mother, Mother, Mother come with me!" at the top of our lungs.

Not even Gian Carlo Menotti's charming opera, however, could compete with our perennial favorite, the splendidly dramatic old carol "We Three Kings." Each of us had her own favorite king and her own favorite verse to sing. Mine was Balthazar; for some reason I found his lugubrious description of his gift perfectly irresistible: "Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume / Breathes a life of gathering gloom / Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying / Sealed in a stone-cold tomb."

I hadn't the faintest idea what myrrh was, of course, but then I didn't know what frankincense was, either. No matter, we all knew they had to be something pretty special since they obviously had to equal the value of the third gift, gold.

Once we had perfected our costumes, committed our verses to memory once again, and duly rehearsed, we herded our captive elders into the living room, and my grandfather, after considerable coaxing, sat down at his Steinway. In his youth he had had a successful career as a concert pianist, but by this time his skills had sadly atrophied from disuse and arthritis. I now have an inkling of how painful this must have been for him, but at the time I was completely oblivious. I only hope he knew how grateful we were for his critical contribution to our production.

And this, this is the magic moment captured in the photo - the performance just about to begin, Sherry and I trying our best to look serious as befitted the solemn occasion, the irrepressible Leslie grinning from ear to ear, our long-suffering grandfather seated at the keyboard, chomping on his ever-present cigar. My father was undoubtedly the photographer. Truly a Stodola classic.

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Wishing my loyal readers health, happiness, and all good things in the New Year. Thank you for joining me in my ongoing quest to honor the legacy of Project Diana and to preserve the life and times of the many people who in one way or other were touched by it. Look for more in 2020.

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"GOOD MORNING, MOON"

10/4/2019

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The moon is in the ascendant this weekend. The theme of this year’s World Space Week (October 4-10), which begins today, is “The Moon: Gateway to the Stars.” Coincidentally, International Observe the Moon Night, a moveable feast that occurs in late September or early October, happens to fall on October 5 - tomorrow - in 2019.

World Space Week, inaugurated in 1999 by the United Nations, and Observe the Moon Night, launched by NASA in 2009 to celebrate its return to moon exploration, are public engagement programs intended to increase awareness of space exploration and science. Both organizations, however, have taken the short view of the history of space exploration. The beginning of World Space Week commemorates the launch of Sputnik 1, the first human-made earth satellite, on October 4, 1957, which is described as “opening the way for space exploration.” NASA also dates the "Dawn of the Space Age" to the late 1950s, when a series of unsuccessful attempts by the USA and the USSR to orbit, impact, or carry out a "fly-by" of the moon culminated in a Soviet Union fly-by on January 2, 1959 - listed as a partial success because the goal was impact.

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Project Diana enthusiasts know better. The true dawn of the space age, the event that opened the way for space exploration, occurred on January 10, 1946, when a small band of radar scientists at Camp Evans on the coast of New Jersey said “hello” to the moon, and for the first time ever in human history, the moon said “hello” back.

At moonrise, 11:48am, the men aimed their antenna at the horizon and started transmitting. Their first few tries were unsuccessful, but at 11:58am, the moon began answering - tentatively, then definitively. The conversation continued until 12:09pm, when the moon moved out of radar range. On the following three days, and on eight additional days during the month, two-way communication resumed: Signals were sent, and around 2.5 seconds later, the time it took to make the 800,000km round trip, the moon reflected back the greeting from Planet Earth.

* * * * *

And just like that, Project Diana disproved once and for all the going hypothesis that the ionosphere could not be penetrated by radar. By adding the radio band to the visible portion of the electromagnet spectrum, the use of radar expanded our observational capabilities tenfold. Not only that, it represented the first-ever application of radar astronomy, which offered the possibility not simply of observation but also communication with other parts of the universe.

A practical result of the birth of radar astronomy was that measuring the distance to and velocity of a heavenly body or a spacecraft became so accurate that over thirty years later, even though other methods were available that might have been adequate, it remained the method of choice for tracking the Apollo 11 mission. The moon bounce technology pioneered by Project Diana - that is,
reflecting microwaves off the moon and analyzing the reflected signal - was subsequently used for topographical mapping of Venus and other planets near enough to be within radar range, measurement and analysis of the ionosphere, and radio control of space travel, missiles, and orbiting artificial satellites.

The space program as we know it today could not exist in the absence of this advance.

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A less tangible contribution of Project Diana was its effect on the imagination not just of the public but also of the scientific community. As I have written elsewhere in this blog, “[T]he inspirational and aspirational elements of the project dynamized future research by emboldening scientists to consider such new and exciting possibilities as artificial satellites, space probes, and yes, human spaceflight, in the process garnering widespread public support for such efforts in ways that have been well-documented here and elsewhere.”

One more way in which Project Diana inaugurated the space age: It started the tradition of naming space programs after Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. In actual fact, as someone pointed out, most of the subsequent programs were named after gods and not goddesses. All that has now changed with Artemis, named for Diana’s Greek alter ego, a collaboration between NASA and its commercial partners to land “the first woman and the next man” in the region of the lunar south pole by 2024. The longer-term goal of the Artemis program is to establish a sustainable colony on the moon, and eventually to send a crewed spaceflight to Mars.

* * * * *

After the success of Project Diana, the team was disbanded and its members reassigned to other work. When the Army then started jobbing out much of its research program, scientists originally attracted to the Signal Corps by the research opportunities it offered came to feel that the jobs they had come to do no longer existed; many, like my father, left for positions in private industry, where the action, they concluded, now was.

Another decade would elapse before the first artificial satellites were rocketed into space, followed rapidly by crewed spaceflights. But despite this long hiatus, Project Diana was no mere “precursor,” it was truly the foundation of all subsequent space exploration.

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A TALE OF TWO MOONSHOTS: WHAT PROJECT DIANA TAUGHT US ABOUT THE MOON

8/6/2019

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On July 16, 1969, the Apollo 11 spacecraft took flight - the realization of President John F. Kennedy's promise in 1961 not only to land a human crew on the moon within a decade, but also to bring them home safely. Four days later, Neil Armstrong gingerly descended the 10-foot ladder of the lunar landing module, the Eagle, and became the first human to set foot on the moon - taking, as he so famously said, "one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.” A TV camera attached to the Eagle broadcast the images back to earth, and the effect was electrifying, dispelling most doubts about the wisdom of devoting so many resources to life support that, by using vehicles without a human crew, might have been spent on the pursuit of pure science.

Almost immediately, Armstrong set about collecting samples of "moon dust" from multiple locations. Twenty minutes later, he was joined by his fellow astronaut Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, who also began collecting samples. In all, two and a half hours were spent collecting 2.2 pounds of material. They also deployed a seismometer to detect possible tremors and an optical reflector used to measure the distance between Earth and Moon with even greater accuracy. To mark the symbolic importance of the achievement, they planted an American flag along with a plaque that read, "Here men from the planet Earth first set foot on the moon.... We come in peace for all mankind."

The two then climbed back into the Eagle, napped for a few hours, and rejoined pilot Michael Collins in the Columbia command module to begin their journey home. On July 24 - eight days, three hours, 18 minutes and 35 seconds after liftoff - the mission ended in splashdown in the Pacific, where the three astronauts were recovered by the USS Hornet. They then remained in quarantine for three weeks, just to be sure they hadn't brought back any extraterrestrial microorganisms, before they were allowed to return to their homes, and to the ticker tape parades that awaited them.

Between 1969 and 1972 there were five more successful moon landings, during which ten more astronauts walked on the moon. One more crewed mission (Apollo 13) orbited the moon in 1970 without landing and returned under harrowing circumstances after an explosion in an oxygen tank crippled the spacecraft, riveting public attention and leading to a radio transmission even more memorable than "one giant leap for mankind": "Houston, we've had a problem" (commonly misquoted as in the 1995 movie Apollo 13, "Houston, we have a problem").

No one has been back to the moon since 1972.

* * * * *

Several weeks ago, as I stood in the checkout line of my local market, I noticed National Geographic’s glossy new publication entitled The Moon: Our Lunar Companion, commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission.

How could I resist?

The volume begins with words about the sway the moon has always held over the human imagination and culminates in a detailed look at the first moonwalk on July 20, 1969, the succeeding three and one half years of human exploration, and their enduring legacy. The intervening chapters offer an overview of the history of the scientific study of the moon, starting in 1609 with Thomas Harriot’s observations with an early version of the telescope.

As I thumbed through its pages, looking for but not finding a reference to that other moon shot just 23 years earlier, it occurred to me to wonder what, if anything, we learned about the moon from Project Diana. Most contemporary reports on Project Diana focused on the remarkable innovations in the equipment - the transmitter, antenna, and receiver - that made it possible for the project to succeed in bouncing radar waves off the moon when all previous attempts, including one by Project leader Jack DeWitt himself in 1940, had failed. But did we actually learn something about the moon itself that might have served as the basis for the generation of new knowledge? Something that might have helped pave the way for the lunar landing?

* * * * *

At least two of the men involved with Project Diana were asked to compare their accomplishment with the lunar landing, and both, in their responses, touched on ways in which Project Diana constituted part of Apollo 11's historical background.

In an oral history interview I conducted with my father in 1979, he remarked on the excitement generated by the success of Project Diana and I asked how it compared with Apollo 11. "Well, it was much less than that in magnitude. But philosophically and sociologically, I think it was important, because as far as I know, it really was the first time that man had in a measurable way [italics mine] manifested his influence beyond the reaches of the immediate locale of the earth. Indeed, somebody on the moon could have received radio signals that were transmitted from the earth, but this was really the first proof of it."

According to the History of Army Communications and Electronics at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, 1917-2007 (published 2008), Dr. Walter McAfee, who made the mathematical calculations for the moon shot, also downplayed the comparison in a 1985 interview, stating that the Project Diana scientists were thinking more about the utility of their work in propagating radio waves than in going to the moon. Nevertheless, he added, the experiment improved our ability to measure the distance between the earth and the moon and led to some understanding about the nature of the surface of the moon.

* * * * *

Learning something new about the moon itself, of course, wasn’t part of Project Diana's mission. Nor - unlike Apollo 11 - were the efforts of well over 300,000 workers and a $25 billion budget thrown at the project. Nonetheless, in the process of determining what they needed to know to succeed, the team contributed to what was then known about the moon in at least two respects.

First, as both my father and Dr. McAfee noted, by pioneering a technique of active observation that involved reflecting microwaves off the moon and analyzing the reflected signal - radar astronomy - the Project Diana team developed the most accurate method to date for measuring the distance between the earth and the moon. By extension, and of critical importance for the future of space exploration, Project Diana also showed that the distance and velocity of a spacecraft could be determined very accurately from the earth. Even though the Columbia's onboard navigation system would probably have been adequate for that purpose, the ground-based method was still unsurpassed in accuracy and therefore the main method used to track the Apollo 11 spacecraft.

Second, as Dr. McAfee mentioned, Project Diana contributed to what was then known about the nature of the moon's surface and played at least a cameo role in a subsequent debate on the topic. To be clear, he was not talking about mapping the topography of the moon, which could not have been done with the equipment they were using at the time. The team was, however, seriously concerned about reflective properties of the moon that might need to taken into account when using it as a radar target, as discussed at some length by DeWitt and Stodola in a 1948 paper. If the moon was perfectly smooth, the reflection would be expected to be comparable to light bouncing off a mirror. From what limited astronomical evidence existed, however, they inferred that the terrain would more likely consist of plains and mountains similar to earth - perhaps somewhat rougher due to the lack of water and air to produce "weathering." They adopted a mountainous area near Ellenville, NY as an approximation of lunar terrain and used tests of that region to adjust their signal transmission and reception parameters.

Later, as radar reflections became somewhat more refined, a serious controversy developed, fueled by a theory proposed by Cornell scientist Thomas Gold that the moon was covered by a fine layer of dust or "lunar regolith" that might be deep enough to swallow an astronaut or even a spaceship like quicksand. It wasn't until 1966-68 that a series of Surveyor probes sent to investigate the nature of the moon's surface landed successfully and satisfied NASA scientists that the moon's surface was well-enough compacted to support the weight of an astronaut. So Gold was right about the lunar regolith, it turned out, but not about the quicksand (which for some reason was a disproportionate and almost obsessive fear during that era - someone calculated that 1/3 of movies made in the 1960s included at least a passing reference to quicksand). The assumption under which the Project Diana team operated, it turned out, was closer to the truth.

Even so, the astronauts remained understandably nervous about the ability of the moon's surface to support not only themselves but also their landing module, which was equipped with legs designed to serve as a built-in launchpad. This was, after all, their only option for getting off the moon. The Eagle had to work right the first time, without benefit of a full dress rehearsal, and there was no rescue plan if it failed. The astronauts knew this. (What they didn't know is that in the event they were stranded, all communication with them would be cut to avoid sharing the last words of the doomed duo with a watching world.)

The collection of moon dust by the astronauts, and even the famous photograph of Buzz Aldrin's bootprint, were part of NASA's ongoing investigation of the nature of the lunar surface and its weight-bearing capacity. Fortunately, the astronauts were not swallowed alive by lunar quicksand, the Eagle minus its legs was able to lift off, and as one wag put it, "this fear was finally relegated to [the] scientific dustbin of history."

* * * * *

In addition to contributing to our store of practical information about the distance to and the surface of the moon, if only as a byproduct of meeting the needs of their own mission to hit it with radar, Project Diana (as my father recognized) achieved a PR coup when DeWitt decided to focus on the moon as a target for their efforts, presaging Kennedy's decision to focus on human spaceflight rather than to send robots or dogs to the moon. Both decisions galvanized the imagination and provided a major stimulus to future research.

Jack DeWitt’s original assignment was to research and test the capabilities of long-range radar to determine its utility for detecting incoming ballistic missiles. It was not intended as a hypothesis-testing experiment but rather as a demonstration project, or perhaps more accurately a proof of concept. DeWitt decided to fulfill this assignment by “shooting the moon” - a longstanding dream that he justified by arguing that it was the obvious and in fact the only available target for making such a test.

This decision was truly a stroke of genius. It transformed the project from a military exercise to something much broader in scope and interest, something that captured the world’s imagination. “Somehow,” the New York Times declared, “the moon and all the heavenly bodies become more real…more than a guide to navigators and an inspiration to poets…tangible objects to which we can reach out." The success of Project Diana resolved any remaining doubts about whether radar could penetrate the ionosphere. It revolutionized wireless communication. But more than that, the inspirational and aspirational elements of the project dynamized future research by emboldening scientists to consider such new and exciting possibilities as artificial satellites, space probes, and yes, human spaceflight, in the process garnering widespread public support for such efforts in ways that have been well-documented here and elsewhere.

- - - - - - - - - -
(Thanks to Drs. Ovide Pomerleau and Gregory Wright for their assistance. Any errors are mine, not theirs.)

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WHEN KING MET ELSA

7/22/2019

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My parents were married on July 22, 1939. It was an event that almost didn’t happen. Because it did, and because I love “how we met” stories, the 80th anniversary of their wedding seems as good an excuse as any to recount theirs.

Elsa and King Stodola, July 22, 1939. This is my only photo of their wedding festivities.

By way of background, my mother lived in Massachusetts and my father lived in New York City, but they happened to have two mutual friends - Grace Boyd, whom my mother had known since her early childhood in Barre, Massachusetts (and a source for parts of this story); and Mary Baptiste, a college friend from Gloucester, Massachusetts, daughter of a Portuguese fisherman and in Grace’s words, “as brash as Elsa was timid.” Grace and Mary had both spent time in New York City, and they knew my father through his network of Unitarian young people.

The first time my parents met, my mother had recently graduated from Boston University and was working as a nanny in Beverly Farms, Massachusetts. She was also engaged to be married; heartbroken after the breakup of a long college romance, she had impulsively accepted the proposal of a young man she'd recently met through Mary. One day my father tried to look up Mary in Gloucester during a brief trip to New England and learned that Mary was visiting a friend named Elsa in Beverly Farms. So my father made his way to Beverly Farms, where he found Mary and met my mother and her fiancé, who was also visiting.

And that was that; King returned to his engineering studies at Cooper Union in New York and Elsa resumed preparations for her upcoming wedding. They parted with no expectation of ever meeting again.

Then my mother suffered a devastating blow. Shortly after her wedding, her new husband simply walked away from my mother and the marriage. My mother’s only hope for getting her life back on track was a divorce - easy enough to obtain today but so expensive (at a time of widespread economic hardship) and protracted then that it threatened to destroy her chances of happiness. Despondent and desperately in need of a change of scene, she moved to the Bronx, finding a job as a mother’s helper to earn the money she needed for the divorce. Fortunately, someone warned her to maintain her legal residence in Massachusetts, where three years’ desertion was grounds for divorce; in New York, divorce was granted only for adultery. While she waited out her three years, she was careful to maintain her voter registration in Massachusetts and to vote by absentee ballot.

As my mother’s first Christmas in New York approached, Grace sent King a Christmas card with a note saying, "Elsa Dahart, whom you will remember meeting when you visited Mary Baptiste about a year ago, is now living in the Bronx, and doesn't know anyone else in town. Her phone number is…” My father being my father, he gave my mother a call, and although it couldn't yet be said that the rest was history, my mother was gradually drawn into my father's large circle of friends.

An anecdote shared with me by Grace reveals a lot about both of them at that moment: As my mother approached her 25th birthday, her divorce decree finally within reach, she still couldn’t help feeling that life might have passed her by. After all, she had always planned to be married and have a child by the time she reached 25, and as she began telling her friends, everything had now gone wrong. One day my father, upon hearing this plaint, said, "Well, now that you have lived your life, what do you plan to do next?" This comment struck everyone as so comical that even my mother laughed.

Although my parents had by now become close friends, my mother was quite shocked when my father proposed marriage. Until now she had regarded him as “just” a friend; understandably wary of another such commitment when she was still awaiting the official dissolution of her disastrous first marriage, she took several weeks to think about it. But as Grace put it, “King was so kind and understanding, and made her feel he did truly love her—and they had gotten to know each other so well during a long platonic friendship…,” she finally agreed to marry him.

At this point, my father had received his engineering degree and accepted an entry-level job with the Army Signal Corps in Washington DC, assigning radio frequencies to military bases. On July 6, 1939, my mother's divorce decree became final in Worcester, Massachusetts; on July 15, 1939, my parents applied for a marriage license in Washington DC.

A week later, they were married in the All Souls Unitarian Church in Washington DC.

* * * * *

My father had been raised as an Episcopalian but found his way to the Unitarians at the age of 13. It was the perfect match for him, providing the social and intellectual stimulation he craved in the context of a rational approach to religion.

My mother, who had attended the Methodist Church as a child, converted to Unitarianism when she and my father became a couple and it suited her for about the same reasons it suited my father - though she always thought the Methodists had better hymns.

All Souls Unitarian Church, Washington DC, corner Harvard St NW and 16th St.

St Martin's-in-the-Fields, London, inspiration for the design of All Souls.

All Souls Unitarian Church was founded in 1821 and has been located at the corner of Harvard Street NW and 16th Street since 1924. The building's beautiful neoclassical facade was modeled on that of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields at Trafalgar Square in London, where coincidentally Ovide and I spent a delightful evening at a baroque music concert during our trip to the UK in April. My parents loved All Souls and for as long as they remained in Washington DC continued to be active in the church. Later, after each of their daughters was born, they brought us back to All Souls to be christened.

* * * * *

Elsa & King, sometime during the early years of their marriage.

It was a happy and successful marriage. Said their friend Grace, "I've always felt that King was very good for Elsa. He was so gregarious, and kept his friendships in such good repair, and he sort of pulled her along with him." Though my mother didn't achieve her goal of becoming a mother by the time she was 25, she happily welcomed me a few days before her 30th birthday and went on to have three more children.

As I have mentioned elsewhere, my parents were legendary among their friends for how well they got along. I have thought about this a great deal. It was definitely not a case of not caring enough to get angry. Obviously they maintained good communication and practiced mutual respect, patience, and kindness - all those good things - but I also think part of the magic was rooted in their 1950's style division of labor. For the most part, they each had their own spheres of responsibility, and within those spheres each abided by the decisions of the other.

Sadly, their lives together were cut short by my mother's untimely death in 1965 at the age of 52. Her dreams for their old age and all the wonderful things they would do together after the children were grown never materialized. Possibly because of the division of labor mentioned above, our father was ill prepared to take over her responsibilities. Our family had lost its anchor.

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PROJECT DIANA - NOW AN IEEE MILESTONE

6/26/2019

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Taking its place alongside such space age icons as the Mercury Spacecraft MA-6, the Apollo Guidance Computer, and the Grumman Lunar Module, the Project Diana site at Camp Evans in Wall Township NJ, was designated an official Milestone by the IEEE on May 17, 2019. Click HERE to see the announcement and several photos, including one of the unveiling of the plaque. The IEEE Milestone program recognizes outstanding technical developments around the world.

The plaque, mounted near the entrance of the building that housed the laboratory, reads:

“On 10 January 1946, a team of military and civilian personnel at Camp Evans, Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, USA, reflected the first radar signals off the moon using modified SCR-270/1 radar. The signals took 2.5 seconds to travel to the moon and back to the Earth. This achievement, Project Diana, marked the beginning of radar astronomy and space communications.”

The IEEE Jersey Coast Section, which nominated the Project Diana site for this honor, elaborated in its supporting documentation on the new scientific possibilities ushered in by the birth of radar astronomy:

“Before 1946, scientists observed the universe using large passive radio telescopes that caught and recorded radio waves emanating from the universe outside the earth’s atmosphere. This technique of passive reception was part of a field known as radio astronomy. Following the success of Project Diana, scientists had access to what is known as radar astronomy. Unlike radio astronomy, this technique is an active observation by reflecting microwaves off objects and analyzing the reflected signal, in the same manner as Project Diana had done with the moon.... The success of the project became a symbol that led to the beginning of the Space Age for the United States.”

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D-DAY AND CAMP EVANS

6/6/2019

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“Full victory - Nothing else.” Those were General Eisenhower’s orders to the paratroopers of the 101st Airborne Division at the Royal Air Force base in Greenham Common, England, as they waited to board their planes for the first assault wave.

Lt Col Simon R Sinnreich, America’s highest ranking Jewish officer during World War II, had a similar take.
Our family didn’t know him during that era, but Si and his wife Emilie became close friends of my parents soon after we moved to Long Island in 1956 - a friendship that lasted to the end of their lives and has continued into the next generation of Sinnreichs and Stodolas. Although it wasn’t easy to get Si to talk about the War or his service in Europe, my husband, who has a gift for drawing people out, once asked him how many troops the generals were prepared to lose in the Battle of Normandy. Si’s answer was stark and simple: “As many as it took.”

For most of us, the term "D-Day" evokes haunting images of wave after wave of landing craft approaching the Normandy beaches, of the hapless paratrooper left hanging for hours after his chute became entangled on a church steeple in the nearby village of Sainte-Mère-Église, and of course of the Normandy American Cemetery with its seemingly endless expanse of crosses. On this 75th anniversary of D-Day, when solemn military ceremonies and moving first-person accounts by the few remaining veterans, now in their nineties, flood the media, these heroic exploits and appalling sacrifices claim most of our attention.

Diorama at the InfoAge Science and History Center of an American paratrooper caught on a church steeple.

World War II era mobile radar unit on the site of the former Camp Evans, now the InfoAge Science and History Center.

Less well known, though also worthy of recognition, are the contributions of the so-called “wizard war” to this historic victory. Here are a few words about Camp Evans’ participation in this effort:

To induce Field Marshal Rommel to hesitate or possibly even to deflect the German Panzer Divisions to the wrong place, Eisenhower stationed a shadow invasion fleet in Northern England, complete with dummy inflatable tanks, and leaked misleading information through his network of spies to suggest the invasion would take place at Calais, not Normandy. He knew, however, that this ruse would not be enough to deceive Rommel, because the Nazis had radar units all along the French coast searching for signs of an invading fleet. The Allies' only hope of evading these tireless sentries was to destroy as many of them as possible and then to use the same strategy of adding competing information to the mix.

The radar scientists at Camp Evans, along with their counterparts in Great Britain, the US Navy, Harvard, and MIT, were tasked with developing the equipment needed to carry out these plans. Their efforts enabled bombers to zero in on German radar sites, to interfere with (jam) their communications, and to introduce confusion by dropping “chaff” - mostly strips of aluminum - to create a cloud of indecipherable images on Nazi radar screens, ploys that caused Rommel to delay sending Panzer Divisions to Normandy long enough for the Allies to establish a beachhead. As a result, the German air response was next to non-existent. In addition, radar sets designed at Camp Evans landed on the beaches to protect the troops as they fought to fend off Panzer attacks.

By D-Day, radar and its military uses had clearly come a long way in both sophistication and precision since the Chain Home network described in my most recent post. Using radar not only to obtain information but to spread disinformation, then called radar countermeasures, is now known as Electronic Warfare or EW, the field in which my father continued for the remainder of his career.

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A VISIT TO LITTLE GLEMHAM

5/27/2019

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My father’s maternal grandfather, Arthur King, emigrated to the U.S. in the late 19th century from Little Glemham, Suffolk, England, where his father and then his brother had served as clergymen at St. Andrew's Church. He left behind a large and close family of siblings, and for the rest of his life, black-and-white photos and letters written double-sided in a spidery script on flimsy "airmail" paper flowed freely across the Atlantic.

My great grandfather Arthur King. He contracted polio late in life and walked with a cane.

At a family wedding a few years ago, surrounded by the people I love best - my husband, my daughters, my grandchildren, my siblings and their families - I had the sudden insight that as the oldest grandchild of Edwin and Beatrice King Stodola, I am the Stodola family matriarch.

With great honor comes great responsibility! In particular, I find myself heir to most though probably not all of the Stodola family archives. This material did not come to me all at once, but piecemeal over the course of many decades. I can't even remember how it all made its way to me. Some of it I've had as long as I can remember. Some my father packed away in cardboard cartons when we moved from New Jersey to New York. Once my mother died, he never again opened them or made any attempt to sort their contents. Later the boxes, still unopened, were carted from our basement on Long Island to a storage unit in Florida. My stepmother tried valiantly over time to identify and get things into the hands of the right Stodola child (mostly me, because she knew I would care and share), But like me, she was hampered by cryptic labels (my favorite: "him and me") and nonexistent dates, and in addition knew far less about our family history than I.

Although I have eight great grandparents and sixteen great great grandparents, just like everyone else, the Kings have always seemed a little larger than life to me because I heard so much about them from my grandmother, who as an adored only child maintained close ties with her father’s relatives in England; and because the Kings were a prolific and retentive lot, leaving a rather large paper burden behind for their descendants to sift through. Over the years, I have threaded my way through most of the documents in my possession and succeeded in identifying many though not all of the photos. I have also connected, through DNA matching and more traditional methods, with second and third cousins who still live in the UK and are much more steeped in King history than I.

In order to become an American citizen, my great-grandfather had to renounce allegiance to Queen Victoria. His citizenship papers are part of my King family collection.

In 1998, before genealogy tourism was even really a thing, Ovide and I made a fascinating visit to the tiny town of La Copechagnière near the Loire Valley of France, birthplace of his ancestor Paul Vachon who in the 17th century brought his three sons to the New World, giving one the “dit” name of Pomerleau. As a family history buff with a keener interest in how our forebears participated in the larger sweep of human history than in an exhaustively-documented series of begats, I concluded that If one hopes to learn about the life and times of one's ancestors, there is no substitute for walking where they once walked.

I vowed on the spot that we would one day make a similar pilgrimage to Little Glemham.

“One day” finally arrived more than 20 years later, this past April, when we embarked on a two week tour of London and environs that included an exploration of Little Glemham in Suffolk and a visit with two second-cousins-once-removed in Sussex. Except for the stress of driving on the left, along narrow roads with many roundabouts, which fell solely upon Ovide, and the stress of navigating, which was my bailiwick, our vacation could only be described as idyllic. Even the weather cooperated - we never even unpacked our umbrellas.

The rest of this essay is about our trip to the UK.

* * * * *

In case you are wondering where to find Little Glemham, population 187, it’s located just a couple of miles south of Great Glemham, population 224. Even the Brits have to google to find it. And yes, it’s really spelled that way - two m’s, no n’s.

When we started planning our itinerary, we realized we could include Easter in our schedule, which seemed a propitious time to visit St. Andrew’s. I emailed the current rector, who assured me that although St Andrew’s is now part of a “benefice” of eight churches - necessary because attendance had dwindled too much to justify weekly services at each church - an Easter service was indeed planned for St. Andrew’s.

On our first full day in East Anglia, knowing we might not have an opportunity to poke around much on Easter Day, we stopped by St. Andrew’s, which looked exactly as I remembered it in my photographs. The only problem was, it also looked like every other church in every other nearby village, even to the little gatehouse in front, with only minor variations in size and layout. These parish churches date back to the Middle Ages - starting life as Roman Catholic churches and after Henry VIII becoming Anglican - and I guess having hit on a successful formula, the builders decided to stay with it.

We were greeted by two devoted volunteer caretakers, Rod and June Clare, who were busily cleaning and decorating the church for Easter. No need to knock - like all the little churches we visited it is open 24/7, with signage apologizing profusely if for any reason it might have to be closed for even a few hours, just please close the door when you leave to keep the birds out - and we were welcome to stay as long as we wished.

Rod Clare sharing some of St. Andrew's rich history with me.

June Clare dusting and polishing.

St. Andrew's has been fortunate in its history and is happily well-loved by those few who remain on its rolls. Since it was first built in the 12th century, it has benefited from several updates in its first few centuries, from a restoration project in the 1850s, and from extensive recent repairs. Though the departure of the lead bellringer several years ago led to a silencing of the bells, they can now be heard once again thanks to a troupe of ringers that circulates among the local churches. (Listen to the bells of St. Andrews!)

Then...

Babies have been baptized at this font since the 13th century.

...and now.

The window on the north wall, given by parishioners and friends in honor of Arthur's brother, was the work of a local artist, Margaret Rope of Leiston.

After we finished our tour of the sanctuary, Rod led us to the King family plot in the churchyard, where we found monuments marking the graves of my great great grandfather and several of his descendants. Though the stone was partially effaced with time, we could make out the words “parish priest” faintly etched on the side. My grandmother had always referred to him as “rector," so I consulted Professor Google and found that the terms rector and parish priest, along with vicar and curate, are used more or less interchangeably despite barely perceptible differences in their technical definitions. (My brother, who has spent lots of time in the UK, claims that “understanding the ins and outs of the Anglican Church is like cricket - if you weren’t raised with it, it will always be a Mystery!”)

I assumed at first that the charming old home next to the church was where my great grandfather had grown up but later learned that by the time the Kings came on the scene, the rectory had been relocated about a mile away, to a house large enough to accommodate Richard Henry II, his wife Fanny, and their twelve children. A sign in front of that building (now privately owned) identifies it as the "Old Rectory", presumably making the one next to the church the old Old Rectory.

The original rectory, next to the church.

The newer "Old Rectory," about a mile from the church, where the Kings lived.

* * * * *

We arrived early on Easter Day so that we would be sure to find seats. We needn't have worried - the six of us who attended could each have occupied a whole row with room to spare. I was repeatedly struck by the thought that Little Glemham was once home to enough parishioners being born, getting married, suffering, dying, and attending church each and every Sunday to provide Richard Henry King II with year-round full-time employment. He would probably roll over in his grave to learn that the attendees at the 2019 Easter service barely outnumbered the clergy, largely because Ovide and I were there and another man was in town for his father’s funeral, and that the current rector is a woman - who rushed off at the end to conduct another service in another part of her benefice.

* * * * *

Also in honor of Easter Day, Glemham Hall (more properly Little Glemham Hall) was open for a tour of the premises. Such tours are common in the UK, as many of the beautiful old Elizabethan stately homes that once formed the backbone of England's social, economic, and governmental system struggle to maintain themselves in a state of “arrested decay.” Today the key employees are more likely to be event planners than butlers. Unlike many such tours, however, this one was conducted by the lord of the manor himself, who had grown up in those 80-some rooms and knew it as no docent ever could.

The house was built by the DeGlemham family in the mid 16th century, replacing the moated manor house their forebears had built on the site in the 13th century. In 1709 the North family purchased the property, along with the lordship of the manor, and shortly thereafter made major structural changes to give it the beautiful Georgian facade it boasts today. During the latter half of the 19th century, when my great great grandfather was rector of St Andrew’s, the mansion was occupied by Alexander George Dickson, a Conservative Member of Parliament and second husband of the widow of Lord North.

Think Upstairs Downstairs. Think Downton Abbey. Think (as did I) of the rector of St Andrew’s being honored by an occasional invitation to tea at Glemham Hall.

Beautiful Glemham Hall

Phillip Hope-Cobbold, surrounded by his ancestors, welcoming his guests.

A modern painting of the Glemham Manor grounds, showing Phillip's two sons playing lawn tennis in the background.

The current lord of the manor is Major Philip Hope-Cobbold, a descendant on his mother’s side of the Cobbold family, who made their fortune in the 18th century by founding a major brewery. The Cobbolds bought the house from what was left of the North family in 1923, so in fact Philip Hope-Cobbold’s forebears just barely overlapped with the Kings’ tenure. Still, the tour was both intimate and amusing, and Philip himself was totally charming, leaving us satisfied that we had gained at least a little insight into a social system that somehow allowed the Kings in their rectory to interact in a carefully choreographed way, friendly but at a distance, with the occupants of the nearby manor house.

* * * * *

As luck would have it, East Anglia, land of my father’s forebears, also played a critical role in the history of radar during World War. The Bawdsey Radar Transmitter Block, just 15 miles from Little Glemham in the village of Bawdsey on the Suffolk coast, was the first operational radar station in the world, where British scientists and engineers secretly gathered during the 1930s to demonstrate that radio waves could in fact be used to locate moving targets. Chain Home, code name for a series of early warning radar antennas strategically placed all along the British coastline to detect and track incoming aircraft, fanned out from Bawdsey.

During the Battle of Britain in 1940, their resources stretched almost to the breaking point, the British sent a delegation to the United States to propose a marriage of British science and knowhow with American industrial capability. Public sentiment in America favored neutrality; Henry Tizard, head of the mission, took the bold step of showing the Americans the technical innovations they had achieved without any promise of reciprocation. As Tizard hoped, the sheer impact of British superiority in the development of radar was sufficient to convince the Americans it was in their own best interest to support the British effort, and thus began the amazingly productive British-American collaboration in the development of radar.

It was just around this time that my father left his entry-level job at the War Department assigning radio frequencies to Army facilities ("boring!") to begin his fledgling career as a radar scientist. Although the Tizard Commission visited Bell Labs in New Jersey and Columbia University in New York City, I have found no evidence of their having stopped in Belmar - and in fact the subsequent locus of collaboration focused on the creation and development of the famous Rad Lab at MIT rather than on work already in progress by the Army Signal Corps at Camp Evans. Still, it seems likely the American commitment to the British war effort, cemented by the Tizard Commission, set the stage for my father’s career in radar research and his particular expertise in moving target detection.

Although we didn't have a chance to visit the Bawdsey Radar Museum, we did spend a couple of engrossing hours at the Parham Airfield Museum near Little Glemham, housed in the original World War II Control Tower of Framlingham Air Force Station #153. The museum is dedicated to the 390th Bombardment Group, which carried out more than 300 combat missions in the Boeing B17 “Flying Fortress,” during which 19,000 tons of bombs were dropped and 342 enemy aircraft were downed. Nearly 200 American planes never returned, and today being Memorial Day, it seems especially fitting to honor the more than 700 service members killed in these risky missions. Also worthy of mention are the humanitarian flights undertaken just before V-E Day to supply desperately-needed food to the Dutch.

In a world where Americans aren’t universally welcomed or appreciated, it was heart-warming to bask in the affection and gratitude with which the Yanks are still, even after all these decades, remembered at Parham.

Ovide owned a Hallicrafter SX28 receiver as a teenage ham radio operator. More recently, he and some fellow Club members restored one at Station W8UM. So he was delighted to find one on display at the Parham Airfield Museum.

* * * * *

Over the past year or so I had become friendly with my DNA match Jane, a second-cousin-once-removed who is also descended from Richard Henry II, so we spent a few days at an inn near her home in Sussex, south of London. Jane and her husband David turned out to be the most gracious hosts imaginable. Jane is a superb cook who served up steak and kidney pie and other traditional delicacies, and David entertained us with a video he had made for the BBC back in the 1980s in which he persuaded some friends to help him mow his lawn by staging a very amusing lawnmower tango worthy of Monty Python. We also watched an episode of Escape to the Country, the BBC version of House Hunters (but much better), featuring a visit to the one-of-a-kind Black Cow Pure Milk Vodka distillery developed by a well-known maker of cheddar cheese in West Dorset - where their daughter (my third cousin) happens to be employed.

Cousin Jane introduced me to her cousin (and like Jane, my second-cousin-once-removed), Ian, and we enjoyed a delightful luncheon with him and his wife Nathalie. Ian, unlike me, is a bona fide genealogist, so it was gratifying to be able to help him fill in the blanks on Arthur’s family (including five generations of descendants with the middle name of King).

Of all the things he shared with me, nothing was more thrilling than his photos of the Boys’ Butterfly Collection. One of the few pieces of information I could coax from my father about his relationship with his grandparents was his fond memory of butterfly collecting expeditions with Arthur. Thanks to Cousin Ian, I now understand that this activity was not just an idiosyncratic passion of Arthur's, it was part of a King family tradition that he must have hoped my father would enjoy and carry on.

My great grandparents (Arthur and Vergetta Sayers King) with my father.

The King Boys' Butterfly Collection

After our time with Jane and Ian, we had one day left to tour Sussex and decided to spend it exploring Canterbury and its Cathedral. Coincidentally, the date of our visit (April 25) was probably very close to the date more than six centuries before on which Chaucer’s fictional pilgrims were busy concocting tales to entertain their fellow adventurers as they wended their way towards the Canterbury Cathedral. Even from today’s perspective, the cathedrals of the Middle Ages are amazing structures, but to appreciate them fully, it is necessary to imagine them rising up almost literally out of nowhere, with nothing nearby of anywhere near the same magnitude; and then to imagine yourself a penitent who has never been more than a few miles from where you were born, whose sole experience with churches is with something on the scale of St. Andrew’s in Little Glemham. No wonder the pilgrims felt themselves in the presence of something supernatural and otherworldly.

* * * * *

My grandmother’s stories had given me the impression that a long line of Kings had been rectors of St. Andrew's in Little Glemham since time immemorial. In actual fact, my second great grandfather Richard Henry King II appears to have been the first to serve in that capacity, succeeded by his son Edward Septimus King (younger brother of my great grandfather Arthur, and of Richard Henry III, grandfather of my cousins Jane and Ian).

Richard Henry King II (1824-1886)

Edward Septimus King (1864-1925)

I have no further evidence of a King dynasty in Little Glemham. Richard Henry II himself was in fact baptized not in Little Glemham but in Mortlake, south of London, where the King family had apparently resided for a very long time: The King family crest that my cousins regard as authentic (as opposed to a somewhat different version painted by my grandmother that was a prominent part of my childhood iconography) is labeled “King of Mortlake/Arms granted 1589." I don't know the profession of Richard Henry King I, my third great grandfather, but like his forebears he was buried in Mortlake. His father, my fourth great grandfather Dr Charles King II, was a physician who lived and died in Mortlake.

Dr. Charles King II (1730-1814)

For much of its history Mortlake ("mort" apparently meaning "salmon," not "dead") was officially a village, though a village large enough to support a variety of industries including potteries whose products are still very much in demand, a tapestry works, a sugar refinery, and breweries at various times in its history. Its dreamy beauty was captured by JMW Turner in two landscapes painted in 1826 and 1827, depicting views of and from a large town house then known as Mortlake Terrace, commissioned by its owner. Currently Mortlake is a suburban district of London and a popular sleeper community.

In Little Glemham it was possible to walk where my ancestors had walked because the landscape has retained its small-village character and hasn’t changed beyond recognition. Probably Mortlake would have been more of a challenge.

At any rate, a quest for another day.

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ROSIE

3/11/2019

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Late last fall we visited a superb traveling exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan called “Enduring Ideals: Rockwell, Roosevelt, and the Four Freedoms.”

In late 1940, against the backdrop of a long-simmering war that was starting to boil over, President Franklin D Roosevelt was preparing for his upcoming State of the Union address, struggling to find a way to express his longstanding conviction that the our response to any world crisis, whatever it might be, should not be simply an expression of fear. (“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” he had famously said in 1932, speaking not of war but of the Great Depression.)

Then, on January 1, 1941, while crafting his third draft of his message to Congress, Roosevelt was struck by what he believed to be an inspired way of encapsulating his vision for both America and the world - that is, by enumerating what he called “The Four Freedoms”: freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. The peroration he dictated to his secretary at that moment was retained almost verbatim in the actual speech five days later.

How disappointed Roosevelt must have been, then, when the major American newspapers, while covering the address in detail, pretty much ignored the four freedoms passage. Even after the US entered the War in December of 1941, polling results showed that although 80% of Americans responded favorably to the underlying ideals, fewer than 25% could name even one of Roosevelt’s “Four Freedoms”, and 61% had never even heard of the four freedoms at all. As a catchy slogan Americans could unite behind, the four freedoms were a nonstarter.

"The Four Freedoms" on display at Camp Atterbury.

And then, almost miraculously, the four freedoms were rescued from the dustbin of history by the painter Norman Rockwell, who, wanting to do his part to support the war effort, retired to his studio in Arlington, Vermont in 1942 and in the space of seven months translated the four freedoms into four compelling images. Although the subject matter was taken from the everyday life of small-town America, they were in many ways aspirational rather than realistic. As Rockwell knew well, not all Americans enjoyed all four freedoms and some enjoyed none. Nonetheless, the scenes were recognizable to all, and the four freedoms, so abstract in Roosevelt’s words, became memorable in Rockwell’s hands.

Images and descriptions of these beloved paintings can be seen here. They appeared as covers on four consecutive weeks of the Saturday Evening Post in February and March of 1943, as well as on posters issued by the US Government Printing Office and on postage stamps. A photograph in the Camp Atterbury, Indiana Archives dated April 12. 1943, showing a WAC and a soldier flanking a four-freedoms poster, suggests that they were widely distributed on military bases (likely including Camp Evans).

* * * * *

Although the Four Freedoms paintings were the centerpiece of the exhibit, it encompassed much, much more, covering Rockwell’s growing commitment to contributing to the War effort in a meaningful way, and later to the advancement of civil rights. The work of other artists and writers also appeared, along with photographs and an evocative assortment of memorabilia.

As I wandered through the aisles, I felt sure there was a blog post here. After all, Rockwell’s fame as an artist/illustrator peaked between 1941-1946. My parents subscribed to the Saturday Evening Post, for which Rockwell created more than 300 cover illustrations over the course of his 47 year association with the publication. I remember looking forward to each issue as soon as I was old enough to read, always hoping Norman Rockwell’s instantly recognizable work would be featured on the cover, since I enjoyed both the visual humor and the satisfying sensation of “getting it.” And yet I can’t recall any specific discussions of Norman Rockwell, and when I polled my siblings, neither could they. I can only conclude that Norman Rockwell was so much part of the water we swam in, the air we breathed, that his work was too familiar and omnipresent to be worthy of comment.

* * * * *

The Four Freedoms were in some ways a turning point in Rockwell’s work, transforming him from an illustrator for whom the war effort was simply something he had to capture as part of his weekly deliverable to a painter with a much more ideological commitment and a will to determine how he could use his special gifts to contribute to that effort. A fire in his studio at around that time destroying all his irreplaceable costumes and props provided him with an additional impetus to focus on contemporary issues.

One outcome of all this introspection was Rockwell’s focus on a series of “characters” who came to stand for the American “can do” response to wartime mobilization. Perhaps the most notable was Private Willie Gillis, who appeared on several Post covers. Another, painted not long after the Four Freedoms tetralogy, was Rosie the Riveter, who appeared on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post on May 29, 1943.

I always loved the idea of Rosie because of what she represented - a woman who, when the men were called away to fight a war, willingly did the work of the world, supplying both wartime needs and what was needed on the home front, and was paid for it. But no matter how often she was admonished that once the War was over she would have to cede her job to a returning serviceman who needed the work to support his family, that genie could never quite be put back in the bottle, and Rosie unexpectedly turned into an agent of radical social change.

Rose Balaban LaMay Stodola (1921-2017)

I also felt a special affinity with Rosie for a more personal reason: In 1968, my widowed father married a woman who had actually been a Rosie. My stepmother Rose (yes, that was really her name) was a gifted pianist who as a young woman had performed in Carnegie Hall; but when the War broke out she went to work as a welder at Grumman Aircraft on Long Island. After the War she resumed her musical career, working as a music teacher in the Suffolk County School System, but she always enjoyed talking about her service as a real live “Rosie.” Rose was a kind-hearted and good-humored woman, not unlike my mother; she nursed my father throughout his final years as he sank deeper and deeper into the fog of Alzheimer’s, and for this I shall always be grateful.

So imagine my surprise, as a self-professed Rosie buff, to learn at the Rockwell exhibit that 1) Norman Rockwell had painted an enormously popular picture of Rosie the Riveter, with which I was completely unfamiliar; and 2) the image I and most others knew as Rosie was not the one Rockwell had painted and was possibly not even Rosie.

How could this be?

* * * * *

Norman Rockwell's Rosie the Riveter (1943)

The answer is that “Rosie the Riveter” actually started out as a song, written in 1942 by Redd Evans and John Jacob Loeb. There was no real-life Rosie; or perhaps more accurately there were thousands. As Robert Lissauer, a business partner of Loeb’s, later recounted, “They wanted to write a song about women who were working for the war effort for the country. So they just made up the name ‘Rosie the Riveter.’ You pick a name for the alliteration and you go ahead and write it.” The song was recorded by numerous artists; one, by the big band leader Kay Kyser, became a national hit.

The song inspired a number of paintings, of which Rockwell’s was the most popular and widely known at the time, but far from the only one. Rockwell’s Rosie wore a blue jumpsuit, with a rivet gun in her lap, a sandwich in her hand, and a copy of Mein Kampf beneath her foot. Her lunchbox was labeled “Rosie,” a backlink to the popular song by Evans and Loeb. Rockwell’s Rosie had red hair and was so hefty and muscular that Rockwell felt he had to apologize to his neighbor Mary Doyle, a much more petite woman who had served as his model.

The painting behind me in the upper right is the one now celebrated as Rosie.

Among the many other contemporary Rosie and Rosie-ish images was the one with which we are most familiar today, a determined woman with her dark hair swept back by a polkadot bandanna and flexing her biceps, with a text balloon asserting, “We Can Do It!” This image, painted by a young artist named J. Howard Miller, was commissioned by Westinghouse Electric Corporation in 1943 as part of a series of posters boosting support for the war effort on the home front. It was displayed for a couple of weeks in factories in Pennsylvania and the Midwest, then replaced by the next-up poster. Fewer than 1,800 copies were printed.

It is not clear that the woman depicted in Miller's poster was ever intended to represent anything other than a generic woman who should be welcomed - temporarily - into the workforce, an idea that met with considerable opposition despite the obvious need for many extra pairs of hands. Nothing on the poster identifies the woman as Rosie or hints that her job was riveting (as opposed to welding or even mopping floors) - though the popularity of the Evans and Loeb song probably made Rosie spring to the minds of many viewers.

And there things stood for decades, until circumstances conspired to create a need for a heroine like Rosie. The 1980s marked the start of 40th anniversary celebrations of World War II (including my father’s largely unsuccessful attempt to commemorate Project Diana in 1986). It was also the time in which the second wave of feminism was winding down, having for the most part (with the glaring exception of its failure to pass the Equal Rights Amendment) met its goals, and many women were encouraged by the legislative and social victories their efforts had brought about. The National Archives, faced with the budget cuts of the Reagan era and looking for a way to generate income by capitalizing on both World War II nostalgia and the feminist wave, somehow hit upon the Miller image, licensed it, and plastered it on tee-shirts, mugs, and other souvenirs. And the crowd went wild!

Although licensing Rockwell’s Rosie would have been a much more expensive proposition, there are probably additional reasons why his painting was passed over for this campaign. Miller’s portrait, more feminine than Rockwell’s, was less likely to create uneasiness around the issue of gender bending. The Miller painting is also less of a period piece; “We Can Do It,” though at the time it implied “win the war,” translates more fluidly to the hope of achieving other goals than does the symbolism of Rosie tromping on Mein Kampf. The choice of Miller’s painting, far from being obvious, was a stroke of genius. Its moment had arrived.

What is harder to fathom is the alchemy by which Miller’s painting came to occupy Rosie’s identity, probably displacing Rockwell’s Rosie for all time.

* * * * *

So here are a couple of my faves from the Four Freedoms exhibit:

The Marble Champion (1939)

Back to Civvies (1945)

More or less bookending the War era, these paintings both appeal to me for their engaging portrayal of youth. "The Marble Champion" shows a girl ready not only to compete with the boys but to win; with her red hair and resolute expression, she could have been a young Rosie the Riveter. "Back to Civvies" is to me a poignant reminder of how very young were the still-growing boys sent off to do battle on faraway shores.

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CINDY STODOLA POMERLEAU

I was just shy of 3 years old when the US Army successfully bounced radar waves off the moon - the opening salvo in the Space Race, the birth of radioastronomy, and the first Earth-Moon-Earth (EME) communication. I was born on the Jersey coast for the same reason as Project Diana: my father, as scientific director of the Project, was intimately involved in both events. Like Project Diana, I was named for the goddess of the moon (in my case Cynthia, the Greeks' nickname for Artemis - their version of Diana - who was born on Mt Cynthos). Project Diana is baked into my DNA.

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